


Plus de Frisson (Bleu)

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [9]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Makeup, Mirrors, bottom!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's tarted up in '70s glam rock fashion, and the case of the Marked Man will leave John gasping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus de Frisson (Bleu)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Progress of Sherlock Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/173274) by [ivyblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/pseuds/ivyblossom). 



> A tip o' the keys to ivyblossom, from whom I borrowed the line, "the heart is not heart-shaped."
> 
> I reserve the "Explicit" rating for kink/non-con/extreme violence, and use the "Mature" rating for even graphic depictions of sex between consenting adults. This story contains graphic language.
> 
> This story is sort of a second chapter, "And then what happened?" companion to my story "Frisson," part of the Road to Home series of Sherlock stories. I'm not sure if it will end up an official part of this series; as it is, it's a bit of Plot What Plot? but it's fun, so c'est la vie!

“This is. . .unexpected,” John said, stepping in closer to Sherlock, running his hand up Sherlock’s bared chest, then down over his shoulder and along the lean length of his arm. The sight of Sherlock made up like a 1970s glam rocker by the deft hand of one Donna Noble Watson was arresting; John raised his fingers to Sherlock’s chin, tilted his face a bit, Sherlock submitted readily. “And brilliant,” he added. “You look. . .”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Extraordinary,” John finished. “Like a creature from another world.”

Sherlock’s lips turned lazily upward into a satisfied smile.

“You look delicious. Good enough to eat,” John murmured, nuzzling his lips against Sherlock’s throat above the loose loop of Donna’s skull-printed silk scarf.

“You do always say the perfect thing,” Sherlock said quietly. “But first—“

“First?”

Sherlock took John by the hand and started to pull him into the bedroom—Donna’s bedroom.

“Sherlock, you know we can’t—“ John started to protest.

“I know, I know,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Just come with me.” Sherlock made a little moue with his dark-fuchsia stained lips and John immediately surrendered. He allowed Sherlock to pull him across Donna’s bedroom through the open door of the master bath. Sherlock steered him by the shoulders to sit on the vanity stool beside the countertop. John reached for Sherlock’s fly, casting an upward glance into his face; Sherlock guided John’s hand away. “I need a case, John. You’re it.”

“A case? I don’t want to be a case; I want to be the man with his face inside the front placket of your trousers.”

“The case of the Marked Man,” Sherlock said. He tipped John’s face upward with a hand on his chin, looked at him through narrowed, kohl-lined eyes. “I promise it will end in my trousers.”

John grinned. “Ah, good. Carry on, then.”

Sherlock reached across to Donna’s overstuffed make-up bag and upended it into the sink; the clattering racket of it caused him to visibly shiver, and he closed his eyes. When the moment had passed, he reached in among the scattered contents and fished out a couple of slim pencils, which he lined up side by side on the vanity top. John watched with curiosity; as ever, his desire to find out what happened next won out over any trepidation he had about what Sherlock might be up to.

“Who do you belong to?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” John said. “I belong to myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He leaned down so his face was close to John’s and near-whispered, “Is that so.”

John made his considering-it-but-it’s-obvious face. “Ehm, yeh.”

Sherlock maintained his close-up eye contact with John as his hand reached out for one of the make-up pencils.

“You. . .” he murmured, “admire me.”

John closed his eyes, enjoyed the sensation of Sherlock’s breath against his cheek, his eyelid. “Very much,” he replied quietly. Sherlock pressed his lipsticked mouth against the lower ridge of John’s eye socket, just beneath his closed eye, leaving a mark.

“And you _desire_ me,” Sherlock whispered, and stroked one hand down the back of John’s neck.

“Yes.”

Sherlock kissed John below his other eye, leaving another lip print.

“Think about me? Talk about me?”

John nodded, eyes still closed. “M-hm.”

Sherlock leaned back a bit, wielded the slim pencil. On John’s temple, he marked in skinny, black lines, “SH.” Then he drew a tiny arrow near the corner of John’s lower lip and in small letters labeled it, “me.”

“What are you doing there?” John asked, quietly.

Sherlock replied, “Evidence.”

“For the case.”

“Mm.”

Sherlock tucked the pencil behind one ear and knelt down in front of John. He reached for the hem of John’s t-shirt and pulled it up and over his head, tossed it aside onto the floor. He stroked his fingertips over John’s collarbones, then took up the pencil again. He drew a valentine-heart in the center of John’s chest.

“Of course, it’s a common fallacy to use this symbol; the heart is not ‘heart-shaped,’” Sherlock couldn’t help but comment. “But convention and sentiment sometimes win out over facts. Who has your heart, then, Doctor Watson?”

“You and my Missus, both,” John said.

Sherlock tapped the end of the pencil against his painted lips, thoughtful. “True enough. But I was there first.” He wrote SH in the middle of the heart, then, right over it, he drew a D. For good measure, he placed a kiss print just outside the heart, on John’s chest. Next, he drew a careful circle around the scar from John’s bullet wound, on the front of his shoulder. This he labeled “MINE.”

“How do you figure that’s yours?” John asked.

“If you hadn’t been shot you wouldn’t have come back from Afghanistan when you did, and I may never have met you.”

John made a small noise of capitulation. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s shimmering, shadowed eyes and wantonly painted mouth. “Exactly _when_ do we get into your trousers?” he asked. “Is there an ETA on that?”

“Shh.”

Sherlock drew an “S” on John’s right bicep, then lifted John’s hand by the wrist and marked in the web between his thumb and first finger on the back of his hand, “v. mine.”

“Ah, yes, very yours,” John agreed, and reached with his newly-marked hand once again for the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. “Let me give it to you, why not?” Sherlock let John stroke him through the cloth of his trousers for a moment--let his eyes fall closed and sucked in his breath as his body responded to John’s touch--but pushed John’s hand away when he went for the zip.

“Case first,” he reminded.

Sherlock lifted John’s other hand and on his finger, next to his wedding ring, Sherlock marked a “D.”

“Tipping in my favour, overall, though,” Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture toward the mark which surrendered John’s ring finger to Donna.

“It’s not a competition,” John protested.

“Everything’s a competition, John,” Sherlock intoned, “once you’ve found a way to win.” He stood again, slipped the black pencil behind his ear once more, and swirled his hand in among the discarded contents of Donna’s make-up bag, fishing for something.

“She’ll have you, you know, when she sees what you’ve done there,” John commented.

“I can take your Missus in a fight, John.”

“Can you though?” John looked skeptical.

Sherlock ignored him. “Who do you dream about?” he asked languidly.

“Ah! Easy. Uma Thurman.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath, annoyed.

“Now and again that Scary Spice, as well.” John sucked his teeth. “The mouth on her.”

“We’ll put a pin in that one, shall we?”

John reached for the silk scarf around Sherlock’s neck and pulled it down and away, exposing Sherlock’s bare chest. John licked one fingertip and circled Sherlock’s nipple, watched with satisfaction as it hardened beneath his touch. Sherlock gently swatted his hand away, then stepped behind John, half-leaning, half-sitting on the vanity, with his legs splayed to either side of John’s stool.

“You’ve saved my life several times,” Sherlock said. “So clearly you care for me.” With a brownish-red lipstick, he scrawled across the back of John’s shoulders, “SHERLOCK.” John shuddered.

“That tickles.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to the spot on John’s back where a scar would be, had there been an exit wound. The resultant lip print he labeled, “me.” “Through-and-through might have paralyzed your arm. Add that to the cane _and_ the psychosomatic limp? Too much; I’d have sent you packing.”

“Oh, now,” John scolded.

Sherlock dragged the tip of his finger down the length of John’s spine and John let out a sighing hum. Then Sherlock placed his palms flat against the middle of John’s back, side by side, and smoothed outward until he was embracing John around the chest. He swept his long-fingered hands across John’s chest and belly, purred into his ear.

“My handsome, brave John Watson.” In a fluid movement he circled around to kneel in front of John once more, and repeated, firmly, “ _My_.” He drew a large, curlicued “S” on John’s abdomen with the lipstick and John flinched, ticklish. Sherlock tossed the lipstick into the sink.

John placed a hand on either side of Sherlock’s made-up face and said, “God, let me kiss you, at least. Look at you.”

Sherlock’s hands went nimbly about the business of unfastening John’s belt and trousers and a Cheshire cat grin broke across his face. “Good enough to eat, I think you said,” Sherlock said, and made a lascivious show of licking the palm of his hand from wrist to fingertips before sliding it down the shaft of John’s aching cock. John sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, gripped the sides of the stool on which he sat.

“This is mine, as well,” Sherlock breathed.

“Yes. . .” John surrendered, utterly undone.

Sherlock stroked John a few moments longer, then rose to stand and started to open his own fly. John went urgently for Sherlock’s hips and pulled him closer, one hand fumbling in among Sherlock’s hands in a rush to undress him. Together they freed Sherlock’s cock and John slid his mouth down on it with a grateful moan. Sherlock’s hands came to rest on John’s head, stroking his hair, the back of his neck.

“You were mine from the very first night,” Sherlock murmured, and John hummed affirmatively around him, stroking Sherlock with one hand and bracing the other hand against Sherlock’s jutting hipbone. “I made a wish for you, and you appeared.”

Goosebumps rose on John’s arms; the haze of sexual arousal acted on Sherlock like chemical intoxicants acted on others: obliterating his filter and inspiring him to near-poetic declarations, murmured confessions, and whispered promises. John made a particularly cunning movement with his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock and was rewarded with a full-body shudder from Sherlock, and a breathy, “Oh, but you are a wonder.”

John drew back, pressing his tongue-tip against Sherlock’s tiny slit and shifting the foreskin back with his fingertips. Sherlock caught his breath, raked his fingers through John’s hair, let out a satisfied sigh. John’s mouth slid down around him again, and Sherlock muttered, “I wish I could mark you so the world knows you belong to me.” John’s spine tingled. “I want to dig out every eye that looks at you when I cannot.” John had to break contact to release a deep moan. He resumed his ministrations and Sherlock’s breath panted out, his hips thrusting forward to meet John’s mouth. He rolled his head on his neck deliriously.

“John,” he gasped, and pressed a hand to the side of John’s face, guided him gently away. John looked enquiringly up at Sherlock’s prettily-painted face, his eyes hidden in shadow, his lips now smudged from having marked John with kisses. “I want to. . .” Sherlock said, with a lazy, wanton grin. Guiding with his hands on John’s shoulders, he arranged John with one knee on the tufted stool, the other foot on the floor, his hands bracing himself on the vanity top; they both faced their reflections in the mirror. John yanked open a drawer on his side of the vanity and Sherlock reached inside, fetched out a bottle of lubricant, which he quickly used to slick his fingers. He drizzled some along the cleft of John’s arse and stroked it downward. John closed his eyes, let his head drop forward toward his chest.

Sherlock’s other hand reached to raise John’s chin. “I want to see your face,” he said quietly, his fingers working the lube all around John’s opening. He pressed just the tip of one finger in, and John caught his breath.

Their eyes met in the mirror’s reflection for a moment and John mouthed, “Yes, yes, yes. . .”

Sherlock worked another fingertip inside, felt the resistance, then the relaxation, and pressed his fingers further in, then slid them partway out again. John sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth and his eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, my perfect. . .”Sherlock whispered, “My only one.” He worked his fingers in and out until John began to rock back against him. John licked his palm, sucked his fingers, and reached down to stroke his cock in time with Sherlock’s rhythm.

Sherlock shifted his pelvis and guided the head of his cock to John’s opening, waited. John let out a delicious moan and became still for a long moment. Sherlock ran one hand down John’s back. “So strong,” he mused. John rolled his back beneath Sherlock’s trailing fingers.

Sherlock pushed his cock in slowly but determinedly, and he watched John’s face in the mirror. He waited a half-breath’s time and then began to rock his hips, all the while admiring the shifting expressions on John’s face. John stroked himself, now and then pausing to slick his palm with his tongue. Sherlock breathed, “There is not a moment in a day when I do not long for this. . . for you,” and John let out an ecstatic groan at the words. Sherlock gripped John’s hips with both hands and fucked harder, faster, his breath heaving, all the while watching their reflection through half-closed eyes.

John caught Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror and held it, his mouth coming open in a way that made him look pleasantly surprised, then his eyes rolled back and fell shut. His shoulders shuddered with a sudden chill of pleasure. “I wish I could see you like this, always,” Sherlock murmured. “Your face is so fascinating.” Sherlock moderated his pace, sliding back with maddening slowness that made John whimper, then pushing in deliberately, eliciting a deep moan from low in John’s chest.

John slicked his palm once more, pulled fiercely on his cock. “Fuck me; I’m nearly there,” John urged, “Fuck me hard.”

Sherlock obliged, jutting into John with quick, hard strokes that matched John’s pace as he jerked himself off. John braced himself with a straight arm against the counter top, his knuckles whitening with the exertion. “You feel so good,” Sherlock panted. “So good. . .” Sherlock moaned deeply, wordlessly, pure pleasure and no thought, and his head fell back as the waves of his orgasm jetted through him, his hips bucking jerkily against John’s arse as he came. John watched Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror, pressed his hips back to take Sherlock deeply inside him, stroked his cock furiously, and came with a shout, shifting his hand to feel his own cum spurt between his fingers.

Sherlock swallowed a gulp of air, reached behind his ear for the black pencil and scrawled across the top of John’s arse “ALL MINE.” He tossed the pencil away, and his lips curled into a satisfied grin as he backed out his still semi-hard cock. John gasped, then leaned heavily forward on both hands against the vanity top, catching his breath.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed John’s back, leaving a trail of fainter and fainter kiss prints as the lipstick wore off. Once John had recovered, he turned around and took Sherlock’s head in his hands, forced his tongue deeply into Sherlock’s mouth, as if he could taste the residue of Sherlock’s words still coating his teeth and tongue and lips. When John pulled back for air, Sherlock wore a look he had come to know well.

“It’s not a competition,” John reminded with a smile. “You haven’t actually won.”

“Haven’t I though?” Sherlock challenged. He reached around to grip one of John’s arse cheeks in his hand. “Mine.”

John kissed him.

“If that makes you feel better,” John said mildly, teasing.

Sherlock only smiled.

“So. . .the case?” John ventured.

“Closed.”

 

-END-

 

 


End file.
